


Flaming

by Shiro_Ai



Series: Phoenix [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auror Harry Potter, Bad Flashbacks, Betrayal, Complete, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks of War, Gen, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mental Anguish, Mentions of Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Mild Bashing, Mild Language, Moving On, Panic Attacks, Post-Betrayal, Post-Canon, Post-Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Short, implied PTSD, mentions of horcruxes, mentions of potter children, no beta we die like men, poor harry still loves his friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-04 04:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiro_Ai/pseuds/Shiro_Ai
Summary: Years after the war, the people Harry Potter loved turned out to have been his greatest mistake that led him to death.





	1. The Man who Lived

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to J. K. Rowling. Format of first two paragraphs too.
> 
> I am merely reinterpreting the concepts for self-indulgent purposes.
> 
> All that said, enjoy!
> 
> p.s This is a one person show so forgive any typos

Mr. and Mrs. Potter, of number twelve, Grimmauld place, were proud to say that they were perfectly unexciting, thank you very much. While they weren’t the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, they kept their lives perfectly peaceful, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense anymore. Especially after the 'defeat of the dark lord' as the daily prophet so aptly puts.

Mr. Potter was a normal member of the Auror Department, with his best mate Ron Weasley cum brother-in-law. He was still as short, having never gained in height since the seventh year, although he did grow into an impressive frame on the job. Mrs. Potter was loving and red-headed and was nearly as tall as Mr. Potter, which came in very useful as she was the perfect build when she was still a chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. The Potters had three children named James, Albus and Lily, respective of age. And in their opinion they were the best children they could ever want. Together, the Weasley-Potter family was the largest most loving family and the best thing Mr. Potter could ever ask for. That and not being the media's fodder—a debatable matter but better than anything else. Everything was normal and peaceful now, no more surprises for Mr. Potter.

Nothing special happens. Nothing means monotony. Monotony is _good_. Monotony is peace. No more fuss. Unlike earlier years. Such mediocrity is almost a godsend in Harry Potter's life. Almost.

Of course things wouldn't be so easy for the boy turned man-who-lived. No. The infamous Potter Luck wouldn't allow it. Only the blind would think his life monotonous.

And _Merlin_, was Harry Potter blind.

He had to be. To turn a blind eye to the fact that the auror job was nothing if not draining, to have to face the atrocities wixen were capable of; _had always been capable of_. He had lost count on the amount times he had to submit paperwork regarding unnatural deaths and illegal activities only for them to be useless in the long run. It had grown into quite the guilty pleasure of his to commiserate over tumblers of firewhiskey the _irony_ that was that during the most troubling period that was early post war, it had also been the most peaceful period Wizarding England had ever seen. Funnily enough in the brief year post-war, where instability was rampant, _that_ was when the public had been on their collective best behaviour. Instead of acting out on every little inconvenience like spoiled children. Unlike now. Everyone was too busy then rebuilding what they lost to have cared much about others. 

He was also blind to not see that his jealous friend never really grew out of his jealousy. Sure, it was hidden better but slip ups still happened—even with Hermione's help. One too many of those subtle jibes about missing his fame was all he needed.

And his loving wife, had oh so much love to share that he came home to squeaking mattresses and new names to learn. Both his eyes were shut so tight, his beloved Lils and James were still his beloved children. 

The Weasleys, they definitely were loving. So much so that half the family were there by his side whispering sweetly as he struggled with his last few breaths. 

"You poisoned me."

"We did."

"Rat poison." Ginny added, voice unable to contain her glee.

"Thought you'd like something less exciting after all that," Hermione added fondly. "I know you hated the adventures, but we hate every second we had to spend with you even more, you know."

"And now we can have all your money and seats."

"Without having to see your face."

"Oh the media will have a field day."

"Tragic death of the man-who-lived, Lady Potter widowed. Weasley family in grief. Just imagine the media attention we'll get..."

At this point, he just tuned them out in favour of taking in all the faces present. Hermione Granger. Ginevra Weasley. Ronald Weasley. Even Mrs. Weasley, no, Molly Weasley. They watched wide-eyed, taking every bit of evidence of his dying self, and he let them. _If they wanted to stroke themselves more, let them._ Faintly, he remembers the children were still at school.

'At _least_, Albus won’t have to see this.' 

Then, a creak of the door catches his attention and out walked a very much still alive twinkle-eyed bastard. Albus Dumbledore. 

And all the memories flashed. Of the night and the fight. _And the fall._ So much fear. And hate. And terror. And anger and—red. So much red. Red. Red. Red. _Liar._ He wanted to shout. To scream obscenities at this man. Yet, his rage-stiffened jaw refused to budge. Instead, he was reduced to glaring at the walking lump of fashion mistakes. Oh, how he regrets tarnishing his precious son with this man’s name.

"How dare you look the Headmaster like that! Have some respect _boy_!" The shrill shriek by his side reaffirmed the presence of the Weasley matriarch. Internally his snarled at the reminder of the Dursleys in her tone. 

"Now, now. Molly, he's going soon, I say let him be." Dumbledore pacified, ignoring the loud huff of the woman. "Harry, my boy, you've done such a good job-" _Liar. Liar. Lies._ "-defeating Voldemort. Too good. I fear his shade might have tainted you too much.” _Lying fool._ "It's time you retire, my boy, for the greater good” the old headmaster smiled his twinkling grandfather smile as Harry seethed internally. _How dare he._

"You weren't supposed to have survived anyways." The others couldn't help but add.

"Think of it as your final sacrifice, Harry."

"And you've done it for us."

_Lies._ Lying liars. Lies. Everyone lies. Including Harry Potter.

It was only because Harry Potter’s lies to himself that he was blind to all the machinations. Blind to all of the things that were so very obvious. To every thing that had happened right in front of him. 

But _Harry _was not.

He simply hadn’t been for a very long time. Not since he’d made amends with the goblins regarding Gryffindor's sword and the stolen dragon.

Not since he found out.

Not that he'd done anything about it. He wanted them to continue the facade for even just a bit longer. If only to have the family he never had. He really shouldn’t have. Should have gotten out. But he was weak.

Now it was too late.

As his sight finally began to grow spotty, his magic losing the fight, he resigns himself to his fate. Being offed by the people he once loved—still loved—was poetic in a way. Then again, his life was never all that peaceful in the first place.

Breaking out of his trance of self pity, he took a final scan of the room, dully noting that the room had fallen into a lull. The occupants all leant back in their seats as they watched him die. Then out of the corner of his eyes, he saw. 

_A knotted stick, a broken ring and his beloved cloak._

And that thing that held them. His thing. Shrouded in an all encompassing darkness that kept writhing. Maybe there was an instant or two where it briefly had the shape of a blackened dementor. It was always just _there._ But today it has those things. 

He laughed.

A hoarse and terrible wispy wheeze between painful gasps, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Why are you laughing, my boy.” Dumbledore puzzles, more to himself than anything.

“Yeah, Potter. Why are _you_ laughing?” The Ron Weasley jeered. “Gone round the bend, have you?"

“…l …”

“What’s that?”

“…his horcruxes… had more…"

And this got them on their toes, hanging on to his every word.

"soul than you…”

He was gone.

Just in time not to feel the punch to the jaw by his best mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first work in this fandom so I hope Harry at least is not too OOC yet.


	2. The Afterlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets Death.

White.

He was in that white-washed station. Again. Only this time it was less King's cross and more empty. Not even the odd domes and misty railings. Just so much nothing. Unending amounts of empty. And he was naked. Of course. Par for the course really, being dead and all. But if his assumption is right, he should be able to get away with having a little more dignity than his birthday suit. 

So he screwed his eyes shut and wished, like the first time, for something to wear. At the tell tale sound of slippery fabric hitting the ground behind him, he turned. 

And did _not_ shriek.

Yup. Right there on the ground was his silvery cloak of invisibility in all its glory. It's just, urm, still connected to that inky—thing? Being?—entity that appeared huddled up on the ground right behind the cloak. Just there. Hugging tendrils around the pale wood wand and broken ring. _Just there._ Slightly swaying. Black sucking all the light out of the white space. It was as if the entity was the reason why there was never much colour in this place. Then again, _it wasn’t here last time._

Harry didn’t know how long he stared. But when he did snap out if it, his hand shot down immediately. Bloody hell, they haven't even spoken yet and he'd already flashed it. 

Eying the only article of modesty available, he shuffled over—against better judgment—the couple of steps and snatched up the offending cloak. The entity did not stir. Harry took it as a good sign to proceed, swathing himself in the many folds of fabric. Better a floating head than an exposed body. Only he was still corporeal. 

Should be fine.

It probably just doesn't work after you're dead. That, and being in front of that which created it. 

Harry pointedly looked at anywhere but the entity, not wanting face the problem. The black silhouette continued to rock to an undeterminable rhythm in his peripheral. Logically speaking, he shouldn't have let the unknown variable out of sight. But no matter now much the screams of ‘constant vigilance’ rang out in his head, he resisted his training in favour of looking elsewhere. Not that it was easy. The vast expanse of nothing tires the mind quickly. He lasted all but three minutes. And bloody hell was it the most excruciating maybe-three minutes in his life—death—Morgana be damned. 

And so he gave and turned to look at the black figure. Only it wasn't huddled up on the ground anymore. It was_ right in front of him._ Right in his face. No longer swaying. Inches away. Its form still indecipherable. Harry's fingers instinctively reached for his wand only to grasp at air. His throat closed up as he scrambled backwards away from the thing. Heart beating in his ears. 

Then the thing reached out with the knotted elder wand. Sibilant whispers and clicks filled the space.

"...Master-r..."

Oh Merlin's saggy balls. It speaks.

"Yes Master, I speak."

_Great I've been talking aloud. Strike one for the Potter Luck._

The entity laughed, much like the sputtering of a dingy car engine on its last legs. Gooey tendrils split into a crescent moon the showed the surrounding white, a poor imitation of a smiling face, dripping at the seams. Harry tries not to make a face but the tugging on his face muscles announces otherwise.

"You don't need to speak for me to understand you, Master."

"You keep calling me master. But I haven't mastered anything." Harry began evenly. 

"You have mastered me, mine Master"

Of course, everyone he knows _needs_ to speak in circles. Channeling his inner Hermio—no. No. Just no. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Ignoring the suffocating clench in his chest—odd he can still feel that way even in death—he channeled whatever inner Slytherin the hat said he had and his Auror training, he pieced everything he saw together and deduced. Frankly it wasn't too hard. Cloak by right, wand by conquest and ring by acceptance.

"You're Death?"

Somehow it came out more like he wasn't sure of himself than he had anticipated in his head. The entity gave the same choking laugh.

"That is one of mine many names, yes. I do prefer Mort more, Master."

Harry nodded with a look that spoke of deep thought but in reality was woefully lacking in the thinking department. He was stunned. What was he to do with an omniscient being that was currently lurking at his side.

"Stop calling me master."

There it was, the Gryffindor in him.

"It is what it is, Master."

"Call me Harry."

"It is what it is, Master."

If Harry had hair long enough, he would have ripped it right out of his scalp. _Strike two for the bloody Potter Luck._ Only he would be stuck with an uncooperative personification of death. 

"Fine, Mort. Would you at least change your form into something more...well human?"

Mort obliged, on a mirror of Harry himself. If Harry was a lesser man, he would have called the grin on the entity's face a shite-eating one. Since he wasn’t, he simply said,

"Stop making my face look like a bellend.”

That just made the entity's grin split impossibly wider. 

Bugger.

It was in that moment, Harry truly felt his age. Even dealing with a sulking Albus was much easier than whatever _this_ is. He sighed. Then he turned to look away. What else could he do. He’s dead anyways. He has lots of time.

  


* * *

  


It was maybe hour five when the entity finally cracked, the hissy voice breaking the silence.

“Alright Master, I’ll get on with it.”

“Brilliant.” Harry drawled though not ungrateful for the distraction from memory lane. Staring into space really brings up too many thoughts. Something that is easily solved with action. 

The silvery cloak around his shoulders twist as Harry made to get up, the sound of silk on silk not entirely unpleasant but betrayed his expectance. He just stared lazily at the entity before him, deigning _not_ to speak first, returning the favour the entity had provided first. It was not unsaid that Harry was petty. If not childish. Then again, Death already knows all about what he thinks, it had claimed. The entity did, however, be difficult first. An infuriating enigma refusing to undo itself even a little until asked. _Commanded._ A tiny, treacherous part of him corrected. So, what’s wrong with, say, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

“I do offer mine apologises, Master, for being difficult. I am beginning to understand this is not something you stand for.” 

There it is. There's no other reason why the entity would apologise, seeing as the entity had been cryptical, as all people in his life had been, the while time. Still, the thought of having someone invading your mind all willy nilly, does remind him an awful lot of Legilimency.

“Stop it.” 

He says amidst torrents of potion fumes and pink. Maybe just little bit of urgency spilled onto the words. He doesn’t notice. Just focus.

“Stop listening or looking or whatever at my thoughts.” 

Harry blinks defiantly at the entity that-claims-itself Mort. His ears barely registering the subservient answer. Focus. He needs to focus.

He doesn’t notice the entity had moved until he felt fleshy palms around his face. The screeches from his trainings that had died down returned with alarm-like urgency. He was suddenly all too aware of how cold the place had been. Harry never would have found out if not for the warmth radiating from those unhuman hands seeping into his skin, thawing out his ears and cheeks. Harry stared into Death’s eyes that were the same deep endless black that it had been and found himself sucked in. It was the same peaceful feeling as the last time he looked. He had missed the utter calm but he refused to acknowledge it. At some point, he had heard something along the lines of ‘oh, mine poor master’ but he couldn’t be sure. The one of the warm things holding Harry's cheeks was gone and darkness replaced it as more warmth covered his eyes. It was then he realised his head was buried in Death’s shoulder, familiar yet unfamiliar. Harry's fingers twitched impatiently at his sides. He soon gave in. His arms reached up slowly, threading fingertips to sink into the familiar yet foreign silver fabric wrapped on Death. Then, he greeted Death as a friend.


	3. Tea and Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of domestic fluff

It took a rather long while before Harry thought about disentangling himself from Mort. 

In a way, he had been comforted by the fact that death had taken his form. It was simple. In all this new uncertainties, at least there was this one thing here that didn’t exactly have a negative association attached to it. That and the unfamiliarity of having his own form in his grasp was the perfect distraction he so desperately needed. The strange feeling of his own hands tugging and combing at his hair was intriguing to say the least. It was easy. Mind clear and focused on this new sensation let him sporadically mumble to and or in response to Mort. All he had to do was breathe and talk. And that was easy.

When Harry did finally let go of his mirror image, he barely moved away, comfortable with the closeness with his companion. They stood, quite unmoving, basking in each others presence, continuing their previous trade of short murmurs and stretching silence.

This went on for a while.

Until Mort offered for a pot of tea to appear and let Harry wish up a view for himself. It hadn’t been too difficult. Harry already had the gist of how the station worked and with a bit of advice from Mort to ‘keep things vague’, he wished for a place he could relax in. He soon had the space in front of him misting and shifting.

Oddly enough, the old sitting room in Grimmauld’s showed up. Well, only the likeness of it. The wall with the large windows were really the only detail that remained intact. Everything else was striped down to only the dusty wallpapers. In the place of the old ratty sofas, were Harry's favourite armchair from the Gryffindor common rooms, duplicated. It _was_ comfortable. Yes, he _could_ see himself lounging in there easily. Mort made for the space near immediately to place down the tea set, he had conjured a tad too early, on the round table Harry had missed in his first pass of the space. He followed in shortly and claimed the chair that was facing a smidge more towards the window. 

They sat, in silence, and enjoyed their own steaming cuppa, Harry a little more now that the drink wasn’t laced with bitterness he didn’t figure was poison, comfortable in each other’s company. Harry, at times, watched out the large window. It was wonderfully and calmingly cycling through different sceneries every so often. The silence was an enchanting melody accompanied by the occasional clinking of china. It lasted until he drained his first cup.

He'd only just placed down his cup and saucer before Mort poured him another. It was funny how quickly it had come to feel domestic. Idly, he noted his companion chewing on his lower lip. It wasn’t until he raised his saucer, stirring the fresh dollop of milk into the steaming cup, that his companion finally made a move.

“Master. I have a few choices for you.” Mort began slowly.

Harry merely hummed.

“You may return to life if you like.”

Harry just shook his head noncommittally, cup halfway to his lips.

“You may go on, Master. Meet your family. Your parents.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don't want to find out.” Harry said, cup pulled a little away from his face.

Mort picked up his own cup, prompting Harry to continue.

“I don't want to know if they’re anything like the ones I thought were my family.”

“Even if they’re not?”

“Just in case they are.”

Mort sniffed. 

“Well that narrows the options quite a bit, Master. A great bit of them included them you see.”

Harry huffed and took a slow drag of his lukewarm drink. 

“You may also move on to a new life, Master. Start over. Blank slate. Then we meet again when you cross over.”

Harry's raised eyebrow from behind his cup was more than enough to mean ’no’.

“Any chance, Master, you’d want to share what you’d like? No? Alright, Master, keep your secrets.” 

The silence that ensued reigned just long enough to be uncomfortable, perhaps awkward should it have gone longer, if not for Harry's outburst of laughter. Then Mort joined in and the shared the near hysterical chuckling. It really felt as if they _were_ old friends.

“Never pegged you for sarcasm, Mort. Aren’t you supposed to be the all mysterious and elusive Death.”

“You needed a laugh, Master.”

“Laugh I did.”

“So, did you have anything in mind, mine Master.”

And that was all it took for the jovial atmosphere to dissipate. 

Harry breathed out shakily, moving to take another drag of tea only to be met with two drops of cold dregs. He put down the saucer. And took the time to pour and fix himself another cuppa. It is only until after he seated back again sipping on his fresh cuppa did Mort give him a look.

“Yes, I do.” He began.

“I-um I’d like if I could let myself not have to experience all of… that again. Maybe relive my childhood. Bit _better_ this time.” He snickered like it was an inside joke. In a way it was really, understatement thy nameth be Harry. He took another drag of hot tea. 

“Would that be feasible? Mort.” 

“Of course it is. Mine Master.”

Harry smiled.

  


* * *

  


Harry put down his now finished cup feeling more than a little hesitant at the thought of having to leave the tranquility of the afterlife and insert himself back into the Dursley's. But that mutinous feeling was quelled when he saw the shiny hull of the Hogwarts express on the tracks of 9¾. _It was just another great adventure, right?_ He steeled himself and turned to look at his mirror. _Time to do this._

“Well, guess this is it."

“In thirty seconds, Master.”

_23, 22, 21, 20…_

“Yes well, see you again, Mort.”

_12, 11, 10, 9…_

“See you when you pass.” Mort flashed a small smile that Harry nearly didn't see as he boarded the red train carriage

_3, 2, 1._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far! Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> I might make a series out of this, maybe.


End file.
